


all of the stars

by flowerpendulum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Angry John, Boredom, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depressed John, Depressed Sherlock, Drug Use, Drunk Sex, Drunken Kissing, Fluff, Friendship/Love, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sex, Smut, Suicidal John, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2018-10-29 17:57:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10859139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerpendulum/pseuds/flowerpendulum
Summary: loving sherlock holmes is like admiring the stars; you don't expect anything back.





	1. love and other drugs

heterochromia. how strange, john thought, as his eyes graced over the person in front of him. under the harsh lights of the lab, his eyes appeared blue, but when focused on the lens of the microscope, they were a soft green. not extremely uncommon, but still peculiar. one of the many things john noticed when he first met sherlock holmes. 

 

"mike, can I borrow your phone?" john felt a pang in his chest from the moment sherlock spoke, and wondered who this strange man could possibly be. curiosity, formerly hardened by the tragic conquests of war, stretched its arms and blinked its sleepy eyes, as john felt, for the very first time in a long while, butterflies flutter their tissue paper wings in his stomach. the coat, the deductions, that horribly cheeky wink, it all left john feeling quite intrigued. this marked the end of john's conquest in Afghanistan and the beginning of his conquest for sherlock holmes. 

"Beauty and the Beast". this was the story that seemed to smuggle itself into john's mind whenever sherlock, either sitting at what used to be the kitchen bench using his microscope or lying on the sofa with his eyes closed, the marvelous brain of his working at incredible speed, thoughts going out as quickly as they entered. 

 

tale as old as time, he supposed. it certainly was. though told countless times before, john found himself living within the famous story. there he was, a gruff little soldier with nothing but an empty blog and psychosomatic limp, and the magnificent creature that was sherlock holmes. tall, dark haired, and majestic as he seemed to float from space to space, mind solving every problem he comes across. beauty and the beast. john was struck in awe at first, unable to figure out the inner workings of sherlock's impossible head,but he eventually grew used to sherlock's day-to-day sessions of violin, silence, tea, research, and so on. normal life. ha, john thought. no such thing when you're flat mates with sherlock holmes. 

 

dragged around, sometimes literally, john secretly enjoyed sherlock taking him on cases, just as so sherlock enjoyed little john trying to unravel every seemingly and increasingly impossible case the pair encountered. after all, where would he be without his blogger. john's incessant documenting of their many adventures brought sherlock a great sense of satisfaction. the baker street duo were perfectly, though quietly, content with one another. however, all great things must come to an end.  
sherlock never gave much thought to what lies beneath john's steadfast expressions. sure, he knew the tell tale signs of attraction; he had seen it all before, in the woman. john never expressed any of the symptoms of love, with an exception for quickening heartbeat, which sherlock presumed could be attributed to any post-traumatic stress from the war. 

john never once slipped, never let his affections truly show in the way he wished to express them. rather than wake him up with a kiss on the forehead and a steaming cuppa, he glimpsed up from the morning paper to briefly remind sherlock that mrs. hudson had left breakfast on the table. it was enough. it had to be enough. he understood sherlock could not return his feelings. he knew the man he was, and sociopath or not; sherlock was incapable of romantic love. it was not an insult, nor a fault; simply a fact john knew.

"john?"  
"yes sherlock?" john's gaze shifted from his laptop to the kitchen, where sherlock was busy at being sherlock.  
"have you written up the dog one yet?" sherlock inquired, undisrupted from his work. john gave a small chuckle.  
"you mean hound of the baskervilles?" he asked, but gained no reply from sherlock. 

he never understood what sherlock gained from these small and trivial  bits of conversation they shared every day, but then again, who knows what sherlock goes on about while john is out.  
"he might even be could be professing his love for me and i wouldn't even know it."  
john shook his head at his own audacity to think so, and returned to writing his blog.  
these were simpler times.

 

it hurts to think about the months after the fall. he still feels a twinge of anger towards sherlock whenever he remembers the days and weeks following sherlock's 'suicide'. the empty chair, the stack of papers still pinned to the mantle with a dagger, the skull slowly growing thick with dust as the 221b flat is neglected by a grieving and broken john. each day reserved for a different emotion.

sometimes, john would find himself standing at sherlock's grave at 5 am, silent tears rolling down his cheeks as the sun rose.  
some days, john would scream at the empty chair until his throat grew hoarse and his lungs burned,  
others he found himself standing in the heart of the flat, tempting to go reaching for his gun and putting himself out of his misery, as his heart ached for sherlock to return. to not be dead.  
how could sherlock leave him  
how selfish can one person possibly be?  
it is true, sherlock did indeed leave him.

but he came back.  
at the time it didn't seem that that was what mattered, but it completely and utterly did.

when john would lie awake at night, mary sleeping my his side, he had to stop himself from crying because sherlock came back.  
he could finally think of sherlock's beautiful, pale body and his long slim fingers padded with callouses from relentless violin playing and remember that man was not rotting in a box six feet under. he is alive. for now, john thinks.

 

 

\--------  
i'll post another eventually


	2. no other choice

john never knew why exactly he was so drawn to mary. sherlock had informed him so matter-of-factly that it was because she was the the way she is.  
maybe that's why he was so drawn to sherlock in the first place.

all john ever wanted was to be loved back by the person he admired most. after the fall, he had no one to hold on to. he was so alone, and felt just like he did before he met sherlock, subtracting the huge hole in his heart.  
john wanted somebody to love him so much he met a woman to brought him back to normality from depression and within a year decided to marry her.

looking back on it, it seems as though john had no other choice except for marrying her. do what normal people do.  
"normal people don't run around chasing after criminals and psychopaths with their best friend who happens to be a sociopath. normal people find spouses, have children, work the 9 to 5."  
john tried to work out his decisions logically in his head, and when he decided mary was the one for him, he finally felt close to happy.

it was her who rescued him from the depths of his own mind, and spent countless hours as his shoulder to cry on. he owed her at least a ring. and now a baby.

sherlock has returned, and john does not know what is left to do but live out his normal life as not a soldier, blogger, or sidekick to the famous sherlock holmes, but as a doctor working in a surgery and living with his wife and soon, his daughter.  
he has no other choice.


	3. before the fall

sometimes it seems as though everything would have been better if sherlock stayed dead. it’s horrible, john knows, to think that way, and he doesn’t really mean it.  
but take a moment to picture it.  
john struggled so much after the fall, but he moved on with his life, as all must do in the wake of a tragedy. but then sherlock comes along and messes up johns life all over again.  
not that john is in any way angry that sherlock is the way he is.  
sherlock is eradic, his behavior unpredictable and impulsive, not able to distinguish a good plan from a horrible decision. but it always is these small quirks about a person that makes everyone who loves them love them so much. they’re not pet peeves, but quite the opposite. the little things a person does that makes you smile, not resent them for it. it was the same for sherlock; the way john would stop and think things through, scold sherlock for behaving inappropriately in a situation without treating him like a child. the little things.  
and john adores every single one of them.  
how quickly sherlock’s eyes flick back and forth when reading, his quiet calmness that brings down the tension of any situation, the way his brow furrows when concentrating on a book or microscope slide.

solving the little cases with sherlock would have to be the best few years of johns life. once he was settled into life at 221b, the everyday pace of tea in the morning, cases in the afternoon, and whatever sherlock had set himself to do on that particular day. the rhythm was as comfortable as can be, like john was meant for life with sherlock. when james moriarty was a fleeting thought, a filler task for when sherlock and john weren’t busying themselves with a case or each other. simple life.

before the fall, before any wives or children or secret sisters, john was almost totally happy for one of the first times in his life. almost. there was always that nagging thought that would remind john of his eternal reality every day: sherlock will never feel the way a real person does. john grew to be content with that fact, to live with it. you can’t change the truth.  
at least he thought.

it was after the baskerville case, when john really felt it. but he noticed glimpses of it before. in dartmoor, and then back in london, sherlock was changing. it was ever so slight, not even enough for mycroft or lestrade or anyone else to notice. but sherlock was different, there was no mistaking it. he was softer, somehow. in the way he spoke, his movements, and his gazes. all very soft compared to the harsh way he did everything when he first met john. in fact, it was so slight that not even sherlock noticed it himself. but, then again, john thought, sherlock was always so bad at knowing himself. how ironic, a man who reads everyone has such a difficult time reading himself.

the new warmth john found between himself and sherlock gave him a feeling of hope he had been lacking for far too long. the war stole away all hope he had before, and his failed attempts that dating and reintroducing himself back into society as the man he was before only reinforced johns feeling of utter hopelessness. but then there was sherlock holmes. proud, cocky, and indestructible.  
My, what a perfect pair. One brings he other up, which the other brings one down. perfect coexistence. before the fall.


	4. after the fall

darkness. john had never known sadness like this before. sadness was a stranger. the grief he felt for those lost in the war was nothing. his feelings were indescribable. john had always been in touch with his feelings, at least reasonably in touch. but with all of these unfamiliar emotions, for the very first time john felt like sherlock. oblivious to himself, only observing life around him.

watching his best friend die is, to this day, the most painful thing john has ever had to endure. it tops the war, and though he would never admit it, even mary dying was easier to overcome than the loss of sherlock holmes.  
john had become very accustomed to things being ripped away from him; the temporary loss of use of his leg after the war, every single failed relationship he had whilst living at 221b, he digresses. but he thought all of that was behind him. only smooth sailing ahead. but after witnessing that, the smack of sherlock’s body on the pavement, the sickening snap of his neck, seeing the blood drip down his face as john frantically reached for his wrist, desperate for a pulse.  
he realized that he wil forever have everything be ripped from him.  
happiness is a dream, and john just had a rude awakening.

“let me through, i’m a doctor. please, he’s my friend”  
in that moment, john cursed the world. cursed sherlock for doing this to himself, to john. cursed those bystanders and first responders for not letting john save sherlock. he just wanted to save him.  
after they wheeled him into bart’s, a pool of blood left where sherlock had landed, john had nowhere else to go but back to the flat. he sat alone for a while, in his chair. the flat looked so strange, peaceful, as though sherlock had never left. his violin resting against the mantle, the indent on the seat of his chair, a half finished cuppa on the table, the spy camera sherlock found in the bookcase still resting on the laptop. john imagined that if he left everything undisturbed, sherlock would come waltzing back in, coat swaying, returning from one of his bizarre missions.   
so he sat, and waited for sherlock to come back. 

lestrade knew exactly where to find john, but didn’t know how to prepare himself for the state he thought john would be in. it was to his wary surprise that john was not a mess of a man, but actually quite calmly sitting as though sherlock had not done what john had just witnessed. john heard footsteps at the door, and knew it was greg.  
lestrade walked over and gingerly placed a hand on johns shoulder.  
“john.” john gave no reply, only staring stony-faced at sherlock’s empty chair. he rested his cheek on his hand.  
“john,” lestrade repeated. “are you...”  
“i’m fine.” john interrupted, still staring at nothing. lestrade drew a breath, then sighed, knowing nothing he could say would make the situation better. He gave john a reassuring pat on the shoulder, and left, closing the door behind him. 

as soon as the door clicked shut, john gasped for air, after holding in his sadness since the fall. he sobbed painful, dry cries that got caught in his throat. his head throbbed and his face felt hot as he cried out in grief and sadness, inhuman sounds escaping his lips as tears streamed uncontrollably down his face. he drew his knees up to his chest, and continue to revel in the sorrow that racked his whole body. he felt it deep in the pit of his stomach, his fingers trembling as they wiped the tears from his cheeks. he felt each and every sob as another stab to the heart, realizing sherlock won’t be walking through the door, or boiling the kettle, or play his violin ever again.  
shaking in panic and sadness, john slid to the floor, and crawled over to sherlock’s chair. he kneeled in front of it and inhaled deeply, trying to catch his breath, but sherlock’s smell only made him cry harder.

Tears of sadness, and loss, but also wet, hot anger. how could sherlock do this to him? how selfish could he possibly be, to abandon his life in such a manner?

the funeral was three days later. it was quiet, and john figured that with the amount of people who hated sherlock for his alleged fraud, there wouldn’t be much attendance. but lestrade came, as did mycroft and molly hooper. mrs hudson was a wreck when she found out, and told john she would visit the grave at a later date when she wasn’t as broken down. john understood.

the ceremony was extremely brief, and no one even spoke until lestrade left, mumbling a “good man” as he touched the gravestone gently, before turning and departing.

the rest left one after the other, both giving john a sympathetic look. john stayed, standing in front of the shiny black stone, wanting to protect it, just like he did for sherlock on their first case together and he had since. but then he failed.  
with all of the buzz around sherlock’s fraud, john knew there would be that one arsehole who would deface the grave. john had failed before, and wanted to stay and protect, but he knew that no matter what he did, sherlock would not be coming back. so he left, only returning once more with mrs hudson so she could pay her respects and so john could say goodbye one last time. he couldn’t return to the flat, it was too painful, so lestrade invited him to stay at his house, but after a week john knew he was overstaying his welcome and found a new, smaller flat for just him. he hated himself. he couldn’t function, couldn’t even go to the shops without breaking down into a mess. he would sit on the edge of his bed, his mind wavering, and his hand reaching for his gun drawer. open. close. open. close. open. his entire body trembled and numbed as he reached for the gun, swallowing a cry and he felt it’s cold, metal handle. he shakily lifted the gun to his chin, sobbing in grief as his finger hovered above the trigger. one slip and he’d be gone, and it would all be over. he gasped for air, his heart thumping against his chest. john dropped the gun, and crumpled to the floor, crying out for him. “please, sherlock. please.” after the fall, john didn’t think he could go on. and then it all changed. ——————- i don’t know why i felt like being so active, but here i am. please comment and let me know if it worth continuing.


	5. silent return

john knows that sherlock packs the capacity of understand the emotions of normal people, but he cannot wrap his brain around why sherlock would ever think it would be a good idea to come back from the dead after two years by disguising himself as a waiter while john was on a date.

it is utterly incomprehensible to him and he if left with no voice but to believe that sherlock was totally out of his mind when he did so.

and john is eternally grateful for it.

he used to spend his time thinking about what life would be like if sherlock had been normal, and come back into johns life calmly and quietly. of course, he knows sherlock could never carry out a silent return; he is far too much of a drama queen.

but after all, the what makes sherlock sherlock. his quick wit, deaf he’s desuctions, and his never-ending attempts at making a scene.

whether it’s playing roulette with a serial killer, taunting a psychopath, or faking his own death, sherlock always has to have the upper hand, and always has to have the last word.

and then there’s john; not exactly his polar opposite but definitely a contrast.  john believes he and sherlock compliment one another to the extent that it makes them, together, tolerable.

the pair had worked so well together in the past that john never dreamed on finding another partner, someone to work with. he could never solve cases without the one and only chance maulting detective.

sherlock was his one and only everything.

but he chose to go away. he forced john to move on from him. no matter how much sherlock told him that what he did was necessary, john would never forgive him.

 

 


End file.
